


Too Great a Gift

by Esteliel



Series: Tell Night From Day [4]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anal Beads, Blindfolds, Bondage, Dom/sub, Fisting, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 19:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2440358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His heart is hammering in his chest, his tongue heavy in his mouth. He cannot believe that he is doing this. He cannot believe that he is doing this to <i>Valjean</i>. That Valjean should ask this of him. It is inconceivable: a wrong so great the earth should split apart and Michael himself should descend from the Heavens to thrust him into the deepest pits of Hell – and yet, nothing happened when he tied the silken cravat over Valjean's eyes, and nothing happened when another length of silken cloth was used to tie Valjean's arms behind his back, to bind him so tightly that his muscles bunch and that strong, broad chest is forced forward and Valjean cannot move at all, save to helplessly curl the fingers of his hands.</p>
<p>
  <i>Valjean wants to be driven past what he thinks he can bear. But it is not only Valjean who remembers the pain of the past.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Great a Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tvglow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvglow/gifts), [madame_le_maire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_le_maire/gifts).



> I blame all of this on Valjean bondage art and a certain someone encouraging me to write more fisting. Sorry.

His heart is hammering in his chest, his tongue heavy in his mouth. He cannot believe that he is doing this. He cannot believe that he is doing this to _Valjean_. That Valjean should ask this of him. It is inconceivable: a wrong so great the earth should split apart and Michael himself should descend from the Heavens to thrust him into the deepest pits of Hell – and yet, nothing happened when he tied the silken cravat over Valjean's eyes, and nothing happened when another length of silken cloth was used to tie Valjean's arms behind his back, to bind him so tightly that his muscles bunch and that strong, broad chest is forced forward and Valjean cannot move at all, save to helplessly curl the fingers of his hands.

It is wrong. Javert knows that it is wrong. It is more wrong still to look at Valjean like this, to see the impressive muscles move beneath his skin, broad shoulders tense, that mouth he even now yearns to kiss in a plea for forgiveness fall slack, so that together with the blindfold covering his eyes, almost Valjean looks afraid. To see all of this, and to still _desire_ – no amount of Valjean's words will ever be enough to convince Javert that this is not a wrong. 

And no amount of words could keep him from giving to Valjean what Valjean has demanded of him – Valjean, who never asks for anything. Valjean has every right in the world to make demands of Javert. He only wishes it had not been this. 

Javert is Valjean's by all rights, and gladly so; Valjean should not be Javert's, not in this sense, for he has been enchained by men like Javert for far too long.

And yet, he still remembers Valjean's words. Lighthearted at first, accompanied by that gentle smile that is as close to laughter as Valjean comes most days: “You handle me as though you were afraid of breaking me! I am no petal that will bruise at a touch, Javert!”

He had scoffed, half embarrassed, half stubborn. And what of it! He had never learned to be gentle; still it is hard, and it takes effort to remember to touch with care, instead of grip, to caress lightly instead of clutch at this man he needs like he has never needed anyone or anything. If he errs on the side of caution, all the better; Valjean deserves nothing but love and the tenderest care, and although Javert knows he cannot give it in the measure Valjean deserves, he tries his best to turn each touch into worship, and to say with his fingers what his heavy tongue cannot express properly in words. How can that be wrong? It is perhaps the only thing that he knows is right, in this word where all certainty is lost and every decision is tainted by doubt.

Valjean seems at once tense and relaxed; the bonds force his body into a rigid position, but he bears it easily – willingly. He remembers Valjean's words that came later, drawn from him when darkness covered all sins, and only the moon found their exhausted, sweat-slick bodies entangled beneath the small window in Valjean's bedchamber. 

 

“I dream of it, sometimes.” Valjean's voice was soft, and Javert turned towards him, lazy and satiated. “Do you still remember it? My body ached when I fell asleep, and still ached when I woke, for nineteen long years. Sometimes I wake, and I am not certain whether I sleep or am awake; my body feels too light, as if I have left all that anchored me to this world. Sometimes I dream that I walk to the rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, or that I walk home to you from the park, and I am too light, and I struggle to keep walking but with every step, I rise higher into the air, and at last I am floating away, as light and helpless as a cloud blown away by the wind, I–”

Valjean shook his head, and Javert nuzzled closer, afraid by what he did not quite understand – what sort of dream was this that it would hurt a man like Valjean, who had not been broken by nineteen years of chains and labor?

Valjean sighed into his hair, touched his cheek with a gentle hand. “Is it wrong to speak this?” he said, hesitant now. “I know the memory pains you. But still, I wake, and I am warm, and the bed is soft beneath me, the eiderdown covers me like a cloud, and all my body feels is the absence of that strain, the lack of the exertion that would leave my muscles heavy and exhausted. To wake without that – it should be a comfort, but instead, sometimes it frightens me, Javert. I never thought I would know this happiness. And I am grateful to be granted this. But sometimes–” He fell silent again, and now it was Javert who raised a hand to his cheek, who brushed away a white lock, traced that soft, beloved mouth with a finger.

“Does this life not suit you? Is it too lonely here? Would you rather go and live with the Baron Pontmercy? I would understand!” he added quickly, his heart aching at the thought to lose the simple pleasure of sharing this with Valjean, but aching even more at the thought of Valjean unhappy.

Valjean shook his head, pressed a kiss to Javert's fingers. “I miss– I miss knowing my own strength. No, that is not right. I am afraid. You see, I was afraid for so long, I ran for so long; every time, I was tested, every time, I had to prove myself – and now, with you, I know nothing but quiet and peace, and I am afraid that all that was at the heart of me is gone. Do you remember, Javert? Do you remember the days as they were in Toulon? Jean-le-Cric, they called me. Even in Montreuil, I was driven past what I thought I could bear, but Fauchelevent was wounded, and I would not allow my body to give in. My body was the instrument of my will. It obeyed me. I knew that then. No matter what they threw at me, no matter how much pain I had to bear, I knew it could be born; I knew I could force myself past my limits. I had no power, but I always had that certainty. And now everything is sunlight and soft beds, and Cosette sends cake and strawberries, and I can take your hand and your smiles for myself whenever I desire, and I am lost and afraid because my heart wants this, but my body still knows that such things cannot be real.”

Javert was silent for a long moment. At last, tentatively, he offered, “Ought we return to the hut in the garden? You know I do not need this soft bed, or your library, or the fire – all I need is to come home and know that you are there. To know that I return to where I am wanted.” 

“You are always, always wanted.” A kiss accompanied the words, a benediction, and Javert smoothed his hand over the lines on Valjean's forehead. 

“So are you. No matter where, or how. You are always wanted, Valjean. You are always needed. “ He hesitated, then: “Anything for you. Is there anything I can do? When I touched you so familiarly, when – I know I tormented you, Valjean, was that – that was wrong, wasn't it?”

“No.” Valjean drew him close for another kiss, his voice firm. “No, that was – ah, it was the opposite of wrong.” He flushed a little; his lips curved against Javert's mouth. “You drove me near insane with need. You made me wait until I thought I would die from want. It was... well. It was exactly what I wanted. You asked me to bear it for you, and by God, the pleasure was near unbearable, and yet, you showed me that I could bear it! I slept very well after that night.”

 

Javert thinks of those words now as he looks at Valjean. A part of him still doubts. Valjean gives him his trust – but it is too great a gift. He is not worthy of such a thing. To have Valjean place himself in his power of his own will...

He should have said no. But how can he say no to Valjean?

The worst thing is, he thinks as he trails trembling, oil-slick fingers over that broad, strong back, that he wants this. That he wants this too much to stop, even though he knows that he should not touch Valjean in such a way. How can he derive pleasure from seeing this man bound, trembling, blindfolded? How can he be hard with need at the knowledge that Valjean is completely helpless and at his mercy?

But he _is_ hard, has been hard ever since he undressed that glorious body, and the heat of his desire only increases as he massages the oil into the scarred back, feeling every welt and ridge and raised scar, feeling, too, the way Valjean's skin heats and the way his muscles yield, the way Valjean stays in position for him, that beautiful, firm arse thrust up for his inspection.

He parts his buttocks with his hands, breathes against him for a moment until Valjean makes a soft, tense sound; he swipes his tongue around him then, laving the tight muscle with his tongue until Valjean is slick with his spit, and relaxed enough that he can lick inside. For long heartbeats, he indulges himself by making Valjean tremble as he fucks him leisurely with his tongue; he has no true plans, save that Valjean enjoyed it to be driven mad with need before, and that he wants to hear him beg again like that. For now, this is good. A year ago, Javert would have thought it undignified, would have been horrified with shame at the mere thought of having his face buried between Valjean's buttocks. Now, he loves the way Valjean reacts to him, loves knowing him in this most intimate way, tasting him as he opens him up, feeling the heat of his body's secret places, and the way Valjean gradually relaxes until his tongue is not enough anymore.

When he pulls back with a sound of regret, his chin and whiskers slick with his own spit, Valjean is loose enough that he takes two of his fingers with no protest. Oil is dripping from his fingers, and the sounds Valjean makes are beautiful, but still Javert is patient. For every heavy moan, every twitch of Valjean's bound hands, for every shudder that runs through that strong, helpless body, he crooks his fingers, spreads them a little, works them in and out with great patience until Valjean is so relaxed that he could take his cock with no discomfort at all.

Javert has been generous with the oil. Now he pours more onto his fingers, works that into Valjean as well in a patient massage that has him trembling with overwhelmed pleasure. Some of the oil runs down the strong thighs; he massages it into Valjean's skin with his free hand. The muscles tremble beneath his palm. Already, Valjean is slick with sweat, and when Javert looks at his face, he finds his lips swollen and red, as if Valjean has bitten them to contain his sounds of pleasure.

Javert smiles to himself as he twists his fingers, feels Valjean's hole yield to him so easily as he slides them deeper inside, smoothes the oil into him as deep as he can go. Valjean's hair is damp with sweat; it clings to the pillow as he pants, open-mouthed and desperate. When Javert pulls out his fingers at last, the sight is obscene: Valjean's hole loose and slippery with so much oil that he could bury himself inside with one hard thrust, and there would be nothing but pleasure in it for Valjean. The thought is tempting, and he presses his hand to where his own cock aches fiercely behind the rough wool.

But that would be too easy, too quick. Valjean's trust is a heady thing. Valjean gives it as easily as he gives him his smiles, but the price Valjean has paid is a lifetime of pain. Javert is determined to pay him a lifetime of pleasure now. His own pleasure will distract from that plan; already, the thought of gripping those hips and burying himself within Valjean's welcoming heat is too tempting. 

Javert slides his hands up Valjean's thighs again, feels him tremble and groan, hears the way he exhales a sigh against the pillow as his thighs slide further apart, baring that vulnerable, loose hole to Javert's mercy. The need within him is a terrible, fierce thing. The chafing of the wool, already damp from the way his cock strains against the unforgiving material, is what he deserves, and so he does not undress. Instead, he takes hold of something he bought and hid beneath the bed days ago, something that he tried his best to forget, something that drove him half insane with the thought of what he might do with it.

The balls of lacquered wood are heavy and sturdy, smoothly coated with gleaming, dark paint. A string connects them; they are innocent enough, he thinks as he slicks them generously with oil, flushing again at the memory of how he bought such a thing and carried it home, how he pressed a a franc into the hand of the old wood-turner while in his mind, he was picturing this: Valjean vulnerable and open, unable to resist, giving himself over to him with such beautiful trust.

He still cannot believe that he walked all the way home carrying this thing concealed beneath his coat; he is half-certain still that everyone he passed must have known from his flush alone just what he was carrying, just what he had bought – such an innocent thing, only his thoughts have been most decidedly sinful since he first laid eyes on it.

“Don't move,” he says, and his voice is hoarse as he presses the first bead to Valjean's hole. It looks impossibly large against the small, gleaming muscle – but it is not wider than his own cock, Valjean can take it, he knows he can... and then Valjean moans and tosses his head, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his nape in wet ringlets, and the slick bead penetrates him, is swallowed by the pink muscle that stretches wide around it, only to tighten again once it is inside him, holding it in place.

“Good,” Javert says. His heart beats painfully fast in his chest. His voice is little more than a rough whisper. “Good. Just take it – all of this.” He presses another large bead to Valjean's hole, hears him groan again as the magnificent body flexes nervously in its bonds. But Valjean cannot move, has nowhere to go, and his hole is so slick and loose that it stretches wide around the bead when Javert pushes it against him. Javert teases the thin skin with the pad of his thumb, feels the stretch, feels Valjean struggle as he is forced open by the massive bead – and then he allows it to slip inside, and Valjean makes a little sob. Javert runs a hand up his thigh, seeking to reassure, but instead, Valjean moans again, his thighs sliding wider apart, offering himself up to anything Javert might seek to do to him, and it is the most beautiful sight he has ever seen.

Every muscle in Valjean's body is tense as he fills him with another wooden bead. He can see the tremors that run through Valjean's body, hear the way his breathing speeds up at the penetration. His skin is slick with sweat; the lash-marks on his back gleam silver as his muscles flex, as his arms try to twist. The bonds hold; Valjean cannot escape, and all his struggle achieves is to show off the strong muscles that work beneath his skin, until it is Javert who wants to moan at the thought that Valjean, in all of his incredible, awe-inspiring strength, is his to do with as he pleases.

Another bead, and another after that – Valjean pants his moans into the pillow, tosses his head again, the blindfold still in place. He cannot see; he cannot escape; he can only feel, and Javert allows himself the pleasure of running his tongue around the stretched muscle again before he slides the bead inside. Valjean is very hard, but he does not touch him. Valjean will have his pleasure – but only after Javert has wrung every moan, every drop of sweat, every helpless shudder from him. 

If he allows himself to linger on it, there is still disgust at the back of his mind at the thought that it is he who is demanding such things from Valjean, and so he does not give himself time to think, drowning all doubt in the sensuality of sweat-slick skin writhing beneath his touch. Valjean's heavy breathing is intoxication; to rest a hand on his arm, to feel that contained, bound strength as his muscles shift beneath the skin still fills Javert with quiet awe.

Another bead; Valjean moans, the sound helpless and low, and Javert does not allow himself to touch his own prick, even though the fabric of his trousers is uncomfortably damp. To look at Valjean like this is almost too much – Javert fears that a single touch is all it would take, and so instead, he touches Valjean, watches him tremble and moan as he presses another bead to his hole, watches the sensitive skin stretch, that beloved, strong body surrendering to his most obscene demands simply because he asks it of him.

“Shh,” he says, “just take it. I know you can take it.”

There are only two beads left. Valjean is trembling; his skin gleams with sweat as he tosses his head again, white curls sticking to his skin. Javert can see now that the blindfold is wet from his tears. Another tear escapes from beneath the damp fabric as Valjean moans, runs down his cheek. 

“Javert, oh God, please, no more... I'm so full, I can't...” His voice is heavy with tears, and something within Javert trembles at the plea. With shame he realizes that it is lust. 

It is terrible. He is terrible. But it has taken hold of him, this thing that delights in seeing Valjean bend past breaking, and he is as powerless as Valjean.

Soothingly, Javert strokes up his side, feels the uncontrolled trembling of the bound muscles. “Just one more now. I know you can take it.” Valjean keeps trembling, turns his tear-damp face into the pillow again, but he does not protest. A whine escapes from deep in his throat as Javert slowly forces another bead inside, his fingers lingering against the loose, stretched skin as he imagines Valjean filled by the heavy, unyielding wood. The thought alone is nearly enough to make him find release, and his cock throbs between his legs, every pulse of blood an agony of need.

When he takes hold of the final bead, Valjean is so far gone that he all he can manage is a broken moan at Javert's betrayal when that last bead is pressed inside as well. Javert can feel the tremors that run through Valjean's body, imagines what he must feel: bound, blind, filled beyond what he thinks he can bear. His fingers tremble with desire as he runs them up Valjean's thighs until they brush against his tense, tormented balls, and it earns him a stifled sob that makes his own balls ache with need.

“If you come before I let you,” he says softly, draws a line with his nail over the vulnerable skin, “I will have to punish you. Could you take that, I wonder? If I took a ruler to you – here?”

Valjean's answer is another sob, and it is almost too much to bear; but Valjean bears it, and so will he. He will not end this until they have well and truly reached the end of what Valjean can bear for him.

He wraps his large hands around Valjean's hips, forces him to sit up. Valjean's breathing is labored and rough with tears, and he moves very slowly; Javert has to bite back another sound of lust as he imagines the heaviness of the long string of beads shifting inside him, every movement reminding him of his helplessness, of how completely he has surrendered his body to Javert.

When Valjean sits at last, that beautiful, bound body arching back against him, he presses a kiss to his nape, licks at the sweat that beads there. Valjean's cheek is wet with tears when it comes to rest against his own, and he forces himself to breathe slowly, deeply, as he runs his fingers over Valjean's bare chest. In this position, with his arms still bound tightly behind his back, Valjean's chest is thrust forward, every muscle shown off for Javert's pleasure, and he allows his hands to have their fill, to caress idly as he drinks in Valjean's beautiful, helpless strength. He buries his fingers in the white curls that cover the broad chest, stroking up and down for long minutes while Valjean trembles and moans wordlessly. Gently, he teases his erect nipples with his fingertips until Valjean shifts against him. Little sounds of needs are panted against his cheek as the heavy beads shift within him as well. Never has Valjean's strength been more palpable; never has Javert been more aware of the trust and the love this man has given him. 

He rubs an admiring hand over the strong chest, then moves lower to feel the taut muscles of his stomach flex beneath his fingers while Valjean pants. 

“Javert, oh, Javert, please, I can't!” Valjean begs again, and he massages his stomach, imagines that he can feel the firmness of the large beads that fill him.

“You can, and you will,” he says, nuzzles at Valjean's throat, his whiskers damp with Valjean's sweat and tears. “You will bear it for me, for as long as I ask it of you.” An aching cry escapes Valjean as he allows his fingers to brush against his prick at last, and then suddenly it is too much – he wants Valjean's cock in his mouth so badly that he thinks he will spend himself at that first taste of Valjean on his tongue, and so instead, he runs his hands up his chest again before he reluctantly releases him. One taste, he thinks – just one, just enough to make Valjean cry again with how badly he needs it, just once that heavy cock on his tongue to see Valjean writhe in his bonds with the wooden beads still filling him...

He sucks him into his mouth once he has helped Valjean position himself on his knees again, and it is all he has wanted – Valjean's trembling, the beautiful sounds he makes, the way his cock throbs heavy and hard in his mouth, so wet with the slickness his tongue keeps urging from the little slit that he wants to keep him in his mouth and suck his spend from him while the heavy beads stretch his hole one by one –

But it is too much, too much for him. The mere thought is nearly enough to make him spend, and together with the need and the lust there is still the guilt: banished to the dark corners of his heart, but present nevertheless. Although he could do anything, he thinks with helpless need, anything at all to drive Valjean mad with pleasure, this is too beautiful to be overwhelmed by his own pleasure. He wants to remember this, all of it. He wants to remember every moment, every sound Valjean makes, the way he twist and begs and gives himself over to him, and he wants it untainted by his own needs.

Valjean's cock slips with a wet, obscene sound from his mouth; he sucks his spit from it with a hum of pleasure while Valjean cries out, his cock jerking against his tongue. “Don't come,” he warns again, draws his hand back up a perfect, firm buttock, muscles flexing beneath his hand while Valjean sobs in frustration. “Don't come, I warned you, I told you what will happen...”

When he kneels between Valjean's spread thighs again, Valjean is so eager for him that his legs slide apart before he even touches him, baring that tender, gleaming hole in invitation. Valjean pants his need into the pillow as Javert slides his fingers up his thigh in breathless admiration, following the slick trail of spilled oil until he finds the tight muscle. “Don't,” Javert says again, a warning meant for himself as much as for Valjean, and then he takes hold of the string and pulls.

His reward is a cry when Valjean's hole is forced to stretch wide again until the first bead pops free. It is as beautiful as he has imagined. Every muscle in Valjean's body is tense; the bonds keep his arms tightly bound behind his back, and so he can admire the play of strong muscles beneath sweaty skin. Valjean is beautiful. Valjean is so beautiful he can barely breathe as he watches him, and he presses the heel of his hand hard to his aching prick as he pulls another bead free, grinding down on his arousal until it turns into pain. Even then, it is almost too much to hear Valjean sob in pleasure and watch him twist, his cock heavy and hard between his legs.

Bead after bead he pulls free as Valjean writhes for him in mindless pleasure and torment. Again and again, Valjean's hole is forced to stretch wide around the polished wood, and at last, when the last bead is pulled free and Valjean is trembling before him, dripping sweat and moaning another voiceless plea into the pillow when Javert raises his fingers to touch that gaping hole, to slide into the oiled muscle with sweet ease, Javert forgets all caution. His plan is forgotten; he fucks him with his fingers while Valjean's thighs slide even further apart, shaking with the strain, and Valjean's voice is near animal as he twists and sobs and begs for more and more until Javert has four fingers inside him, until Valjean takes that too with such ease that he pours more oil on himself and then chokes on his own moan as he pushes, pushes, as he demands and watches Valjean give that too, and it should be impossible but–

“Good God,” he moans, “Christ, Valjean, Valjean–” 

There is no word for what he sees. His cock is so hard he thinks he might come just from that view, but that ache between his legs is a dull, distant pain. Nothing else exists but the way Valjean's hole stretches impossibly wide, the way his hand, his large, rough hand – those hands of the law that are lead, that are iron, that have never learned gentleness and love until this man – sink _inside_ , and everything is heat, everything is vulnerable tenderness. Still Valjean begs, makes high, keening noises like an animal as he shudders and twists in his bonds. His blindfolded head tosses back and forth as drops of sweat and tears drip from the wet ringlets of white hair, and Valjean just takes it, Valjean surrenders to that too, Valjean pulses around him, opening to Javert in a way he had thought impossible, yielding and yielding no matter how much Javert thinks to ask, until his entire, large hand is inside him, until Valjean's hole stretches taut around his wrist, and the sob he hears from a distance is his own. Sweat runs down his back beneath his shirt; it is impossible, and yet he feels the tender, pink heat that is the heart of Valjean, moves within it as Valjean moves with him.

Valjean arches his back. His hands twist helplessly, so tightly tied. The blindfold around his eyes is dark from the tears that have soaked into the fabric, and he does not even beg for Javert to stop. The way he sobs Javert's name is a plea, but a plea for something Valjean does not know – it should not be possible, Javert thinks again, watches with breathless disbelief how very wide Valjean stretches around him, moves even deeper, asking for something he has no right to ask for, only Valjean is sobbing for it, is twisting and writhing and making moans he last heard when he wielded the lash, and yet this is a different agony.

There are no words for what it is like to feel Valjean find release from the inside. He _feels_ the tremors that run through him, he feels that impossibly strong body tighten and coil and then spend itself in long, wet splashes of his seed while he keeps moving within him, massaging him from the inside through his orgasm. It is so unlike fucking him; it is so intimate that Javert cannot breathe – to reach _within_ this beloved body, to feel him hot and mortal and so vulnerable while without, Valjean is all scarred, resilient strength–

He thought to see how far Valjean could bend for him. He thought to see if he could indulge Valjean's craving to be driven to exhaustion, to taste once more that breathless, hot ache of a body driven to its limits – but this is unlike anything, this is reaching within Valjean to touch his soul, his secrets – this one elusive thing that he has looked at for so long but never understood: Valjean's weakness, his frail mortality, his boundless devotion.

He had feared that he did not deserve Valjean's trust and love. Now he knows it. It is one thing to aim a pistol at this man, or to fasten shackles around his wrists. It is another thing entirely to watch Valjean spread his thighs and allow himself to be breached by his hand, to offer up his own body as though it were nothing, when in truth what Valjean has to give is everything. It makes Javert tremble, to see Valjean give this thing away so thoughtlessly, and to one so undeserving. The tremors that run through the hot, tender flesh that wraps so sinuously soft around his hand are testament to that great, terrible truth: that he holds Valjean in his power in a way he has never intended, that one wrong move could hurt, could even kill, and that Valjean would allow such a thing to happen.

His mouth is dry as he slides out of him, very slowly, very carefully. Valjean moans again, tired and sated, as his hole is forced to stretch one last time impossibly wide around Javert's large hand.

Breathless, disbelieving, Javert touches the fingertips of his other hand to the skin that is stretched so thin, so wide around his palm – even now, his cock pulses with relentless need, and he feels a tired sickness at this thing that refuses to leave. If he needs further proof that he is and has always been undeserving of such reckless trust, it is this.

When Valjean is free of him, he frees Valjean in turn, cuts through the silken bonds, pulls off the tear-stained blindfold with the gentleness which Valjean deserves and which still feels too much like an act from him. Something within him is missing, Javert thinks with great helplessness as he looks at the wet tracks of tears on Valjean's face. A man who knows love would not do such a thing to another. A man who knows compassion would not tie one who had suffered nineteen years of captivity. A man who deserves Valjean's love would never, never make him weep, would never made him plead and beg “no” and ignore such a thing.

Something within him is very heavy, a leaden weight in his stomach. The feeling is not so unlike that night he stood above the Seine and looked at the rapids.

And why should it be any different. He is still the same man, with the same regrets. Perhaps he learned some things under Valjean's gentle tutelage, but the truth of him cannot be wiped clean with kisses and gentle touches.

He hates the taste of salt on his lips as he kisses away Valjean's tears. Valjean – beautiful, strong, too trusting – has barely strength enough left to lift a sore arm and wrap it around him to keep him close. Javert, ashamed, cannot resist. It is one thing to know that he does not deserve Valjean's love; it is another to willingly reject it when it is offered.

Valjean is very exhausted. Javert does not know when he has last seen him like this. Valjean is too tired to speak, but his lips are curved into a small smile, and he sinks into sleep just like that, as if all that was missing was the warmth of Javert's body close to him.

Almost, Javert is grateful that he cannot leave now, and hates himself for that gratefulness too. He does not sleep. He is still wearing his clothes; his trousers are damp and uncomfortable between his legs, but at least his cock has softened again. 

It is so hard to make sense of himself. He looks at Valjean, and he feels nothing but a helpless love. It is a thing greater than himself; almost it seems like the despair that once nearly claimed him, in that it overwhelms everything else without answer or explanation. It is there; it hurts deep inside him, where the dead wood of his heart has cracked, and now he thinks that maybe, he has been wrong all along, maybe it was not a green shoot that grew from that withered wood, but that Valjean's heart thought to root within this dead place.

He swallows. Very gently, his fingers brush the sweaty hair from Valjean's brow. He loves him – but is that enough?

Javert knows nothing of love. He knows what a man is who ignores a plea, who hurts another, who would tie another to make use of his body when he is helpless. The taste of the salt on his tongue and the scent of their drying sweat brings back those memories of Toulon. 

Yes, maybe Valjean too does not understand love, for that is where both of them must have learned to desire such a thing, to expect bonds and force and a surrender that comes with tears, instead of the tender embrace a man like Valjean deserves.

Javert's fingers linger on Valjean's cheek. Valjean asked it of him – but Valjean also cried, and what man would force someone he loves to shed tears? He can make no sense of himself. 

 

He must have slept eventually. He wakes to a Valjean who is very quiet, but very affectionate; Javert is held in strong arms and kissed for long, long minutes with so much gentleness that he wants to weep. Valjean's lips travel all over his face; it is a benediction which he knows he does not deserve, although his greedy, dead heart soaks up every tender touch.

He arrives almost late at the station house; he most definitely leaves late, although he can barely remember the day's work. It is late, and yet, the further he walks, the more his steps slow, until at last, two streets from the Rue Plumet, he stops, breathing heavily as though he had run all the way.

It is late, he tells himself. It is very late; Valjean will already be asleep. Valjean will be worried if he wakes him now, and there is no reason to worry. Nothing of note happened during the day, it is just that there was a lot to do, and Gerard never fills out his forms correctly, and Dubuc had trouble with an informant. Valjean will be worried, and Javert will be cross with him because there is nothing to worry about, and something twists in his stomach at the thought of Valjean's eyes losing their warmth, looking at him with quiet hurt, or worse, reproach.

He will see him tomorrow, he tells himself as he quickly walks past the street that leads to Valjean's house. He will sleep in the room he still rents; his landlady is used to his ways and late hours, at least. At most, she will look at him with suspicion, but never with that unbearable disappointment.

 

It is the paperwork's fault, he tells himself again when he leaves the station house the next evening, long after dark. If Gerard could just learn to fill his reports correctly, but Javert cannot bear the thought of a superior reading the nonsense Gerard notes down, and so, sacrificing half the evening to such a thing is unfortunate, but unavoidable. Perhaps tomorrow – most certainly tomorrow! He will leave a little early, maybe he will even send a note at noon to apologize, and promise to come home with a bottle of wine in the evening –

His feet have carried him to the Seine. He stops there, and his thoughts scatter as he looks at the dark waters rushing past beneath his feet. He does not like to linger near the water now, mostly because the hot rush of shame the memory wakes within him. 

Today, the shame is a sharper blade than usual. It twists deep in his heart, where Valjean's strong, so cruelly tender roots have widened the cracks of the dead piece of wood that sits heavy in his chest. He lingers for a long while. He cannot even say why. Maybe it is simply that the chaos beneath him is comforting; the roar of the water covers the roar of his conscience, drowns out the memory of Valjean, beautiful and gleaming with sweat and writhing in his embrace as he pleaded for him to stop.

He is not even surprised when at last, a hand finds his arm. Sick with shame and self-loathing, yes – but not surprised.

“I am not–”

“I know.” Valjean's voice is quiet. 

He lowers his head, waiting for the admonishment. 

“Will you come home with me and tell me what happened?” 

The laugh that breaks free surprises even himself. “Do you – do you have to ask? Do you not know?” He shakes his head, unhappy, impatient with himself. And that is wrong too, that he brought Valjean to this, that he should force Valjean to come running after him, to find him here, at the water, and speak gently to him.

“It is only that I am unhappy with myself,” he says at last. “It is no fault of yours, I sought to protect you from my mood – but I did it in a cowardly way. I should have returned home to tell you. I am sorry.”

Valjean is silent, which surprises him. He has expected questions, reassurance – Valjean cannot bear his unhappiness. No; but Valjean would gladly suffer himself and let him bear the guilt of that–

The thought is petty; he forces it away with an unhappy sound. At last, Valjean's hand comes to rest on his arm, warm and strong, and Javert wants his kindness so much it almost hurts. He sways a little as he leans into him. Below, the water continues to rush past. He wishes he could throw that dark, tarnished part of his heart into the water. He wishes Valjean would order him to do penance on his knees. He wishes the world would make sense again, that there was simply right and wrong, superior and inferior. A man like him was never meant to have power over Jean Valjean. This thing within him is a devil, for nothing else could deny mercy to a saint.

“Will you come home?” Valjean asks, and Javert allows himself to be pulled into his embrace, uncaring who might see. Let them think him drunk. It would not be so wrong.

There is the hot sting of tears in his eyes. He is ashamed, to stand here at the water and cry into Valjean's shoulder once more, but now that he has started he does not know how to stop. He wishes Valjean had not come. It is shameful, to ask this man who bears so many burdens to bear the burden of his own shame as well. All the same, after two days of loneliness, the warmth of his embrace is too good. 

“I've hurt you enough,” he says at last and tries to raise his head. Valjean does not let go. “You don't have to worry... I would not hurt you with my death, never. I want to learn how to hurt you less, not more.”

Valjean's lips brush his ear. “Fool,” he hears, very softly. “When did you hurt me? When you left and did not return and made me worry. Why did you leave? Was what I asked of you so distasteful?”

Javert makes a soft, humiliated noise at the thought that Valjean is blaming himself for this. “Ever the martyr,” he says with a bitter laugh, then recoils at the callousness of his words. “Ah, God, forgive me. I barely make sense to myself these days. You did no wrong. I did wrong. Do you not remember? Once, I begged you to say no to me, at least on occasion, so that I would know that I'm not driving you to – but you see, you said no to me now, and I ignored it! You said no, and I went on, and...”

He is glad that it is so dark that the flush on his face is hidden. The street is empty, but even so, to talk about it here at the water makes him feel strangely vulnerable, as though he were stripping off his layers of clothes to stand before Valjean in nothing but his shirtsleeves in public.

“But Javert, I wanted you to ignore it.” Valjean's voice is soft, the words searching, as if he has trouble to understand his meaning. “I told you, I wanted – I wanted that sensation. To be driven past what I thought I could bear. You gave me that. I _wanted_ that. I wanted what you did. To come apart at your hands. To know that I could, that it did not matter, because you were there.”

Javert shakes his head, tries to swallow past the lump of tears in his throat. “But you see, you should not want it. You cannot want it from me. Never from me. I cannot...” A small sob breaks free, and he tightens his hands in the heavy wool of Valjean's cloak, then thrusts him away a little. There is worry in Valjean's eyes. Even now there is worry for him. “I thought of you,” he says wildly. “Yes, I thought of you in Toulon, I looked at you bound and I saw those scars on your back and remembered that once, it was I who held the lash! And still I looked at you, at my mercy, suffering at my hands once more, and I felt lust!”

He takes a step back. He wishes Valjean would strike him, would hate him. But Valjean will not. “I can't...”

He chokes on this thing inside him. He cannot bear it anymore, to have Valjean look at him with such kindness. 

“Come home,” Valjean says at last. He does not reach out to touch him, and as glad as Javert is for that, a part of him wonders if he ever will again. “Just come home with me, Javert, and sleep. We can talk in the morning, if you want.”

He wants to take another step back. He wants to turn, and leave, and hide from himself in the silence of his small chamber. Instead, almost against his will, he finds himself by Valjean's side again – and that is right too, he thinks with tired bitterness as he follows him. Always the dog at the heel of his master. And that is as it should be. He cannot afford to forget that again.


End file.
